Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch

by Oliver Goldfinch (lit)

  CHAPTER V.

  PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.

  The day following the funeral of Mrs. Courtly, saw Edgar and his sister located in small but comfortable lodgings, some three or four squares from their previously wretched abode. This was effected at the instance of Ellen, who insisted they should at once remove to better quarters, and for this purpose generously provided then with farther means to do so. She had many delicate scruples to overcome in effecting this change; for though excessively in need, Edgar was naturally very proud, and could not bear the idea of being under farther pecuniary obligations to one on whom he had no claim; nor would he, in fact, have consented to the arrangement at all, but for his sweet sister, whom it sorely wrung his heart to behold suffering the pangs of poverty. For himself he knew he could provide in some way—but what meantime would become of Virginia?— and this the generous Ellen pleaded as an inducement to his accepting her proposition. It was galling, too, to one bred in the affluence he had been, to be indebted to the wages of sin—to money earned by guilt—for the bettering of his condition; but poverty and circumstances are many times powerful combatants of sensitive scruples, and so they proved in the present instance. "I will accept her aid as a loan," he at last said, "until kind Providence furnishes me with the means of repaying the debt with interest—for beggars must certainly not be choosers—and without this assistance, now that my check is irrecoverably lost, starvation stares us in the face. And why," he farther reasoned, "should I decline the means which doubtless Heaven has placed in my way for a wise purpose? Who knows but in accepting, I shall eventually be the instrument, in the hands of Providence, of reclaiming an erring one from the perdition to which she is fast hastening?" Having thus settled the matter in his own mind, he went zealously to work, and a couple of hours search put him in possession of two very pleasant rooms, located in the second story of a small private dwelling on Elizabeth street, to which access could be had by a flight of stairs from without—so that he was as much secluded from a forced contact with others, as if occupying the entire premises. Hither he at once removed his sister, and what little furniture was still remaining; and then by a judicious purchase of a few second-hand articles in Chatham Square, among which was a carpet for the floor, he succeeded, at a very small outlay, in giving the apartments an air of comfort and tidiness, to which both himself and sister had of late been strangers—and which, contrasting with their previously wretched abode, made the present one seem a paradise.— Edgar next purchased a few groceries and some fuel, and Virginia prepared the evening meal—for by this time the day was drawing to a close—and as they sorrowfully partook of their first morsel since breaking fast in the morning, and thought of their poor, dead mother, no longer with them to share their griefs or joys, both wept freely, in silence—but wept as those who, not altogether despairing, feel there is something still to live for—as those who have some hope in the future, and believe that day is again dawning upon a night of rayless gloom. Poor, bitterly wronged orphans! Who can sum up and realize their misery, without experience of the same kind! Alone upon the wide world, without home or friends, and indebted to the charity of a frail female stranger for bread to keep them from starvation! And these, too, they who once rolled in all the luxury wealth can give, whose hands were never soiled by labor, and whose exalted position in society ever held them aloot from the mercenary, coarse and vulgar minds with which they must now be brought in contact. Do no let the reader here misunderstand us, by supposing we intend to convey the idea that they were better for never having labored. No, Heaven forbid! for labor is ever honorable, while indolence is reprehensible. We only designed to impress more strongly the suffering they must perforce endure, from the great contrast of their present with the past. For a long time both thought and wept in silence, neither intruding an observation upon the grief of the other. Edgar was the first to speak. Rising from the table, after having ate sparingly, he approached his sister, and throwing an arm around her neck and drawing her gently to him, said, tenderly: "Let us try to weep no more, my sweet sister! Let us dry our tears, and prepare, like philosophers, to enact our parts, and pass through the ordeals of fate without a murmur. Life at the longest is not long, and death will come at last to relieve us of our sorrows." "But, Edgar," sobbed Virginia, "I am thinking of our dear, dear mother." "I know it, sweet sister, and so am I. But the thought has struck me, it is useless and cruel to mourn for one who has exchanged our wretchedness for the happiness of Heaven." "Ah!" sighed the other, "I see I am selfish; for it is not so much for her I mourn, as for myself; not for her loss, but my own. Oh! how we both will miss her sage advice and prayerful counsel!" "But she is in Heaven," pursued Edgar. "Let that thought be uppermost, and dry your eyes. I would not recall her if I could—for she, at least, drank sorrow to the dregs, and should forever more be spared the bitter cup." After a pause of a few minutes, during which Virginia gradually became more calm, Edgar resumed: "And now, my sister, let us speak on another subject, but one I fear scarcely less painful. By the kindness of one I can never forget, we have been enabled to exchange utter wretchedness and starvation for something like comfort; but still the very thought of how this has been effected, gives me pain. To think we have taken money, earned by guilt, to better our condition, is revolting to my nature; and I can never rest until it be returned, and she who so generously assisted us be reclaimed. To effect the former, I must seek and find employment, with wages more than sufficient to support us, while the latter I leave to you; and let us both set about our tasks with right good will, and energies that will not allow us to fail. To-morrow, early, if God spares my life, I shall make a bold move. Surely, in this great city, supporting its three hundred thousand inhabitants, there is something I can find whereby to gain an honorable living. True, I have tried before and failed; but that is no reasen I must again; and something whispers me I shall succeed. So cheer up, my sweet sister! for it is an old saying, the darkest hour but barely precedes the dawn. To-morrow, probably, while I am away, Ellen will be here to see you; and you must use your best abilities to induce her to quit the terrible life she is at present leading. Begin with her gently and feelingly, as you best know how, and gradually progress until your righteous purpose be accomplished— which done, I shall feel that we have not wholly lived in vain." "Ah! dear brother," cried Virginia, with a burst of affection, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his, "how much you are like our dear, dear mother, in your counsels! I will do all you ask of me, and ten times more if it be in my power. Poor Ellen! If I can be the humble means of reclaiming her, filling her heart with happiness again, I feel I can then smile at my own misery, and thank God it has been for some useful end. But more than this, dear brother, I must assist you. I, too, perhaps, can find employment—" "Nay," interrupted Edgar, "I could not see you labor. I could not see your delicate constitution broken down by toil, and thus prepared for an early grave. No, Virginia, you were never bred to work, and it would kill you." "And you, Edgar—you who have been brought up in the same manner as myself— how then will you bear it?" "I am a man, Virginia, with an iron constitution, and am by nature fitted for the rough scenes of life—at least far more so than you. No, no, Virginia—leave all to me; I can provide for both; but to see you toil would render me miserable." In like conversation the evening passed away—Virginia insisting it was her duty, in their altered circumstances, to assist her brother, and he contending to the contrary most strennously. At an early hour both retired to rest, and with the gray of morning both were again astir. Making a hasty breakfast, Edgar kissed and bade his sister be of good cheer in his absence— as in all probability he would return with welcome tidings—and then sailied forth to seek employment in the great metropolis, prepared to put his hand to any honest pursuit that would return a fitting recompense. As yet the sun had scarcely risen; but still the great city was swarming with citizens, mostly of the laboring class, all pushing forward to their daily task—some with pale, sickly, sorrowful visages,
and some with countenances cheerfu l and gay— each an index of the heart within. Venders of all kinds were abroad, each loudly crying his particular article of traffic, which, from long habit, had become rather a peculiar, discordant scream, than any sound or word a stranger might find inteligible. Omnibusses, hacks, drays, coalcarts, bread-carts, market-wagons, and numerous other kinds of vehicles rumbled over the stony pavements, blocked up the crossings, occasionally startled the footpassers, and thundered out the fact that the business of the day had truly begun. As Edgar slowly pursued his way down the Bowery into Chatham Square, down Chatham Street toward Park Row, and noted that every one he met seemed to have some employment, either present or prospective, he thought to himself how happy was their condition compared with his, who had nothing but trouble to occupy his mind. Ah! little did he know that many who passed him with rapid steps, were hurrying to a daily task, that, while it was literally crushing them under its iron burthen, barely returned a pittance sufficient to keep soul and body together. Little did he know that those who seemed better off than he, were dying by inches under excessive toil, that the poor beings they loved, and who were solely dependent on them, might eke out a miserable existence. Little did he know this, or he might have been more contented with his own situation, trying as it was, and felt he had less cause to complain than they. We are too prone to think our own troubles and afflictions the most severe; and this because we know and feel our own, while those of others are wholly shut from us. For a long time Edgar could not summon resolution to ask for employment at the different places where there seemed a possibility of his obtaining it, lest he should be refused in a way to wound his sensitive feelings. And then, what occupation should he ask for? and what experience or recommendation could he bring to aid him, even should the services of one like himself be desired? He had done nothing through life, and consequently knew no more of one business than another; but the fancy struck him, that could he obtain a place as salesman in some kind of a store, he could easily make himself useful and give satisfaction to his employer. With the design of seeking something of this kind, he passed the various shops of traffic, with many a wistful look, but still without venturing within to make the necessary inquiries. At last, after traversing the entire extent of Chatham street and Square for the third time, and knowing that nothing would ever be accomplished in this way, he made bold to address a middle-aged gentleman, who was standing in the door of a furniture ware-room "Sir," he said, "can you inform me where a young man like myself can find employment?" "What to do?" asked the other. "Any thing that is honorable." "For the matter of that," returned the other, "almost any thing is honorable, that a body can make a living at these times. Did you ever act as salesman?" "I never have, but think I could soon give my employer satisfaction." "Umph! perhaps. You look like a young man of good address. I suppose you can write?" "Certainly," answered Edgar, promptly; "I have been blessed with a good education." "Can bring good references, I suppose?" "Why, unfortunately," replied Edgar, coloring, "I am a stranger in the city, and have no friend here to refer to." "Umph! that's bad!" rejoined the other. "So much cheating going on now-a-days. so many dishonest persons about, that one don't like to take a stranger into one's service without knowing something about him. Now if you only had experience, and good references, and could come here at six in the morning and work till nine and ten at night, and do every thing that would be asked of you, without grumbling, I have no doubt you would suit me, for just such a person I want, and would be willing to pay such an one good wages. But as you are deficient in at least two of these requisites, why, I suppose I shall have to look farther." "And supposing I were all you desire, what would be my salary!" asked Edgar. "Why, in that case, I could afford to be rather liberal; and say you boarded yourself, allow you from two and a half to three dollars per week—at least through the busy season." "And this you call liberality?" returned Edgar: "God help the poor!" and he walked away with a desponding heart. For an hour or more, Edgar traversed the streets in a very unpleasant state of mind, ere venturing on a second application. And when at last he did make another trial, it was only to meet with a result similar to the first. Grown somewhat desperate and less sensitive through failing, Edgar now determined, that in case he did not succeed, it should not be his fault, and consequently went boldly to work, pushing his suit wherever there seemed a possibility of success. For hours he pursued this course; but meeting every where with disappointment, and being nearly overcome with fatigue and anxiety, he finally gave up in despair, and strolling into Tammany Hall, threw himself down upon a seat, with the air of one who feels his last hope has departed. "It is no use to longer strive," he muttered, despondingly. "I can accomplish nothing. I am doomed to fail where others succeed. Oh! why was I born! Mother, thou saint in Heaven, I would I were with thee! Come, Death! dread monster as thou art called—thou terrifying Invisible— come here and strike! strike to the heart at once! and thou shalt behold a rare sight—a human face that will not blanch—a human form that will not tremble at thy summons." As he said this half aloud, his eye chanced upon a newspaper lying on a seat beside him; and mechanically raising it, he glanced over the columns in a listless manner, as one who reads while the mind is occupied with other matters. For several minutes he sat gazing upon the paper, sometimes distinguishing a word, and sometimes beholding the letters all blurred and indistinct. At length something appeared to arrest his attention—for he straightened himself in his seat, drew the paper nearer to him, while his eyes brightened and no longer exhibited a vacant stare. The cause of this change in his appearance, was an advertisement which read as follows: "Poets, Attention! A gentleman requires a poetical address, for a certain purpose, for which, if suitable, he will pay handsomely. The length, subject and remuneration will be made known to applicants. Address C. B. E. — office." Edgar was by nature a poet, and in his leisure hours had written some beautiful stanzas, which his modesty had thus far concealed from the public. His talents in this line he had never thought of turning to account until now. "Perhaps!" he exclaimed, starting up with an energy that drew many eyes upon him: "Perhaps!" and immediately procuring pen, ink and paper, he wrote a few lines and left in haste for — office, where he deposited the note, superscribed in accordance with the advertisement.— Having done this he departed, with the intention of returning home; but he had scarcely gone fifty yards, when a hand on his shoulder arrested him, and turning, he beheld an elegantly dressed gentleman, with the billet he had just deposited, open in his hand. "I beg pardon!" said the stranger, blandly; "but have I the pleasure of addressing the writer of this, Edgar Courtly?" "That is my name, at your service," returned Edgar, with a graceful and dignified inclination of the head. "I chanced to be in the office and saw you leave it, addressed to my initials," pursued the other, explanatory, "and hastened to overtake you, that the matter in question might be the more speedily arranged." "I am most happy, sir," rejoined Edgar, "to make your acquaintance so much sooner than I anticipated." "I perceive by this," continued the gentleman, whom we shall call Elmer, pointing to the epistle, "that you have had experience in poetical composition." "I have written some little," replied Edgar, blushing; "but perhaps I am incompetent to perform what you require." "That," rejoined Mr. Elmer, "must be decided hereafter. I am, as you must know, an actor, at present fulfilling an engagement at the Park. One week from to night my engagement closes—the last prior to my departure for Europe. Now what I desire is this: I wish to take leave with a poetical address, of from seventy-five to one hundred lines, expressive of my feelings." Here he explained, explicitly, what he wanted, and wound up by saying: "And now for the best address of this kind, sent me within five days, I am willing to pay the sum of fifty dollars—certainly, to my thinking, a liberal remuneration." "It is indeed!" returned Edgar, much excited at the prospect of obtaining the reward. "Sir, I will do my best to please you." "But I must warn you of competition," pursued the other. "I have had several interviews with poets already, each of whom has promised
a trial, and I shall perhaps have many more, so that he who gains the prize must do so by merit alone." On hearing this, the countenance of Edgar somewhat fell—for he thought to himself, "What chance have I among so many? But then," he reasoned, "I can but fail at the worst, and may succeed—in which event—" Here his feelings becoming powerfully excited, he hastily inquired the residence of Elmer, shook his hand and turned away, with the observation that he would soon hear from him again. With a fluttering heart, palpitating between hope and fear, Edgar hurried through the crowded streets, heedless of all he met or passed, his mind occupied with one joyful thought, that of cheering the drooping spirits of his sweet sister with his new hopes and expectations. Arrived at his new home, he sprang lightly up the stairs and into his own apartments, expecting to take his sister by surprise. The next moment he felt a chilling sensation creep over him—a sensation as awful as the coming of death. Wherefore the cause? The rooms were tenantless—his sister was gone—and echo alone answered to his call.

  CHAPTER VI.

  AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.

  Throwing himself upon a seat, in a state of mind full of alarm and strange misgivings, insomuch that he soon found himself in a profuse perspiration, Edgar sought to invent a cause for the absence of Virginia. It was so singular she should absent herself while he was away, and leave the house unfastened. Surely, she could not have gone far, and would soon return! Somewhat consoling himself with this idea, he waited rather impatiently for her appearance, hoping and expecting every moment she would enter; but as minute after minute glided by, and no Virginia came, he began to grow alarmed in earnest, and rising from his seat, paced rapidly to and fro the apartment. At length, when a half hour had passed, bringing no intelligence of the missing one, the excitement of Edgar had reached such an intensity, that he could no longer content himself in remaining idle. Something had happened, he felt sure, and his heart fairly sunk within him at the thought. Rushing down the stairs with the haste of a madman, he made eager inquiries of the people living in the lower story, and of whom he rented his apartments. But they could give him no satisfactory information. They had seen his sister go out about an hour and a half before, alone, taking the direction of the Bowery, and that was all they knew. It was passed the hour of noon, and Edgar was fatigued and hungry; but forgetful of every thing but his sister, whom he somehow fancied was lost, he darted away in search of her. Fortunately, he had not to go far, ere, to his great joy, he met her returning, accompanied by a young man of genteel appearance, who walked respectfully by her side, carrying a small bundle wrapped with paper. Edgar was not surprised at this, for he fancied she had been shopping, and that the purchased articles were being sent home as is customary. "O, Virginia!" he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing her hand, "how could you so alarm me! For the last half hour I have been on the rack of agony. Why could you not have deferred this business till my return?" "I thought to give you a gentle surprise," replied Virginia; "expecting, when I left, to return before you; but I have been disappointed, and shall not again attempt the like, for already my folly has found a punishment." "As how?" queried Edgar, eagerly. "I have been insulted." "Insulted!" repeated her brother; and his dark eyes flushed angrily upon the stranger. "Nay," interposed Virginia, divining his thoughts, "not by him, Edgar. This gentleman has proved my deliverer." "I crave pardon, sir!" said Edgar,quickly, changing his manner and cordially extending the other his hand. "Let me thank you in my sister's behalf, and trust we may be friends!' "The latter, most certainly!" returned the youngman with warmth, and a hearty shake of the hand; "but as to thanks, I know not that one deserves them for simply doing his duty. I saw this lady annoyed by one whom I had reason to suppose entertained evil intentions, and I hastened to her protection. You should have seen how the offender slunk away as he beheld my visage, with a half uttered apology and look of shame—for well he knew me and I him—though for various reasons I hardly feel myself at liberty to give his name at present. I could not again leave the lady unprotected, and so am I here." "But how happened this, Virginia!"— eagerly inquired Edgar. "I cannot tell you here," answered Virginia, somewhat excited. "Let us first go home, it is but a few steps, and I will explain all." Here the stranger was about to take his leave, but Edgar and Virginia both insisted he should accompany them, and accordingly all proceeded to the house together. "And now," said Virginia, with a bright flush that heightened the beauty of her lovely features, "I will tell you, dear brother, how it all happened, if you will promise, before you hear my story, to pardon any error I may have committed." "My pardon I know you will have," answered Edgar, "no matter what you have done, and so I may as well grant it first as last. Proceed!" "Well, then, you must know, as I have before told you, I thought to give you a gentle surprise, and for this purpose determined, according to my argument last night, to render you what assistance I could in the way of earning a living." "But, Virginia—" "Do not interrupt me, and do not frown, for you know I have your pardon already Well, half the night I pondered on what I could do, and this morning was still undecided, when I chanced to see a woman pass, carrying a bundle of shirts. Accosting her, I learned that she was making them for a large manufacturer, whose address she gave me. I thought to myself I could do as well as she, and as soon as she was gone, hurried round to the place, expecting to return within half an hour. The result is, I succeeded in getting some work to do; but not until I had been kept waiting a full hour, and had been quetioned as closely as if I were a thief. Several times I was on the point of indignantly leaving—but then I thought of you, dear brother, and felt, after all, it was little to endure for your sake." "And what were you to get for all this labor?" asked Edgar. "A dime for each shirt," replied Virginia. "And how many do you fancy you could complete in a day?" "One, at least." "One, my sweet sister! And you would work off your fingers, dim your eyes and ruin your health, for the paltry sum of a dime a day, and all to aid me! God bless you, dear Virginia, for a noble soul!—but I cannot allow such a sacrifice. Thank Heaven! I have brighter prospects in view, of which I will tell you anon. A dime a day!" he pursued; "how pitiful! And yet I suppose there are hundreds— perhaps thousands—forced to toil for even this." "Indeed there are, sir!" chimed in the young man, who on his way hither had given his name as Dudley, and learned those of his new acquaintances in return: "Indeed there are, Mr. Courtly; thousands, who are not only forced to toil for this meagre sum, but are glad to get even this, to keep them from starvation." "Ah! what a world!" sighed Edgar, musingly. What mighty contrasts! It does not seem as though we all had one Heavenly Father, as our divines inform us from the pulpit we have. Alas! God help the poor!" "Ay," rejoined Dudley, "God help them indeed! for He is all the friend they have to look to." "But you have not finished your story, Virginia," said Edgar, turning to her. "While waiting for work," resumed Virginia, "and passing the ordeal of rather insulting interrogatives, I noticed a gaudily dressed fellow loitering about the door, who occasionally stared at me in an ungentlemanly manner; but I thought no more of it, until, having regained the street and gone a few yards, I found him walking by my side. Thinking it accidental, I slackened my pace that he might pass; but to my indignant surprise, I found he suited his to mine. He then requested permission to carry my bundle, as he was going the same way. I coldly thanked, and informed him I had no occasion for his services. " `But you must, my angel,' he said. " `Sir!' returned I, haughtily, coming to an abrupt halt, `you are insulting! Go your way, and leave me to go mine.' "'Pon my word.' he answered, with a leer, `you talk prettily, and are really too lovely to walk the streets alone. Come, let us be companions.' " `Leave me!' I cried, indignantly, `for you are no gentleman.' " `Ay, leave, sir—begone!' said a voice behind me; and turning, I beheld this gen—a—I should say Mr. Dudley, since we have become slightly acquainted," concluded Virginia, blushing modestly. "Of which acquaintance," chimed in Dudley, gallantly, with a polite bow to Virginia, "I am most proud, and sincerely trust it may be of long duration." "The feeling is mutual, I assure you,
" responded Edgar. And then he added, apologetically: "We were not always as we now are, sir. Born to wealth, we never knew the want of money until after our father's death, when our uncle, his manager, came into possession of nearly all his property, as I have strong reason to believe most villainously. Here Edgar proceeded to briefly sketch some of the prominent events of the past five years, winding up with an account of his last visit to his uncle, the manner in which he obtained the check and its subsequent loss, together with the death of his mother, adding at the conclusion: "And now, sir, I must say, I feel I have been almost too confiding to one so late an utter stranger; but there is a something in your countenance and manner, which, step by step, has drawn me on to the full revelation." "I thank you, Mr. Courtly, for the high compliment thus paid me," returned Dudley, warmly; "and assure you, you will never have cause to regret your confidence as misplaced. But a question, if I may be permitted to ask one; for since you have told me your story, I feel a deep interest in your welfare, and will do all in my power to aid you. Will you give me the name of your uncle!" Edgar mused a moment, and then said: "I do not know why I should withold it. It is Oliver Goldfinch." "What! the millionaire!" cried Dudley in surprise: "Oliver Goldfinch, the millionaire! Is it possible? No, it cannot be— there must be some mistake!" "Then you know him?" said Edgar, quickly. "But do you mean Oliver Goldfinch of— street?" "The same, Mr. Dudley." "Know him? Ay, I know him well, and very few that do not,either personally or by reputa tion. Why, he is one of our most prominent citizens, although he has been but a few years among us. There is scarcely a charitable association but is indebted to him for a handsome donation— or a charity-subscription paper afloat, that is not led off by his name, with a round sum attached. Besides, he is a member of one of our most popular churches, and is every where spoken of as a rich, but truly pious and benevolent gentleman." "The hypocrite!" muttered Edgar, grinding his teeth. "O, that I could unmask him! but that I may never be able to do— for he is deep, cunning and far-reaching. Had I the money I wrung from him, I would quit the city and molest him no more." "Really, I am all amazement," mused Dudley, "and hardly know what to think. You say he gave you a check, which you lost, and which, had you now, would relieve you from all embarassment. On whom was it drawn?" "If I remember rightly, John Peyton of Wall street." "You of course have been to stop payment?" "Good heavens!" ejaculated Edgar, with a start, "I have overlooked that." And then, after a pause, he added: "But it matters not—for some poor wretch may as well have it as Goldfinch." "But by stopping payment, and applying again to your uncle, you may procure another." Edgar shook his head. "I would rather starve," he answered, "than again enter his hateful presence as a suitor. No! no!—let it go—let it go. There will perhaps be some way opened, by which my dear sister and I can live without begging favors of rich relations;" and as he spoke, he threw an arm fondly around Virginia, drew her to him, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. Dudley followed the movement with his eyes, and his features expressed something like envy of the brother; and the color deepened on his cheeks, and those of Virginia, as, at the moment, they accidentally, as it were, exchanged glances. What were the fancies, the feelings, the emotions in the breasts of each, we shall not here pause to divine. Suffice, that in refinement of thought and language, grace of manner, dignity of mien and personal appearance, each was well calculated to inspire the other with at least a sentiment of high regard. Mr. Dudley was what in common parlance would be called a handsome man. His age was about twenty-five, and in stature he was full six feet, but with proportions so symmetrical as not to appear awkward or over-size. He seemed formed by nature for a model, with not a pound too much or too little. And then his features were as comely as his person, with a forehead, nose, mouth, and chin of the Grecian cast. In his countenance were no sinister lines—no sly curves, where a sneer might lurk, or hypocracy find a foothold. No! all was open, and frank, and honest; and a single glance showed you he was a man after God's own image. In repose, his face exhibited a stern, thoughtful benevolence, as one who would do a good act for the act itself, and not for the reward that might accrue to the doer. Much of this expression was in the eye, a dark gray, which rarely changed its aspect--never, unless altered by some one of the strong passions of his soul. His complexion was light, with light brown, curly hair, that added much to his good looks. Partly covering and under his chin he wore his beard unshaved, but neatly trimmed, which for him was very becoming. In dress he had excellent taste. He wore nothing showy or gaudy, and yet every garment was rich, and fitted his person with the utmost exactness. No rings, chains, or breast-pins were displayed as ornaments, he seeming to fancy that nature and the tailor had done enough for him.— And this was a true index to his mind—as in fact dress generally is—showing him to be severely chaste and strictly correct in principle. And in fine it was this correct principle which effected his acquaintance with Virginia and her brother—an acquaintance of which neither party as yet dreamed the import. It was not her beauty, as some might suppose, which led him to her protection. No! he saw not that till afterwards. He only saw a female grossly insulted, and distressed by the attentions of a villain, and he hastened to her relief; and had she been old and exceesively ugly, his correct principle of gallantry would have caused him to do precisely as he did. Not that we would imply he had no choice between ugliness and beauty; that he would have felt the same interest in Virginia, had she possessed no personal charms; by no means: we only wish to say, that in the former instance a sense of duty would have urged him to do with pleasure, what he now performed with great delight. After some farther conversation of a nature similar to that detailed, Dudley rose to take his leave. Turning to Edgar, he took his hand and said: "Our meeting and acquaintance, Mr. Courtly, I trust may prove of mutual advantage. You may think it a little strange, that having confided to me some important secrets of your life, I, in return, tell you nothing of myself. But you must not think hard of me, if I reveal nothing now. I shall soon see you again, and sometime you shall know more. I have my reasons for concealment. Consider me, however, your friend; and should you need my aid in any manner, have no scruples in so telling me, for it will prove a pleasure to me to do you a service.— Meantime, I will make your affairs in some measure my own; and depend upon it, if wrong has been done you, in the manner you suppose, the guilty shall be made to feel it, no matter how lofty their station. You may think me boasting, my friend— but time will show; and when time has shown, I trust you will have little cause to regret having gained my friendship." With these somewhat mysterious words, Dudley again shook Edgar's hand warmly, and bowing gracefully to Virginia, withdrew. For some time after his departure, Edgar and his sister conversed about the stranger, or Dudley as he had termed himself, and then the former proceeded to detail all that had occurred in his absence, and the sanguine expectations he had of obtaining the prize. Both were young, and notwithstanding the terrible trials they had experienced both were full of hope. Friends seemed to rise up to their aid where they least expected them, and the longer they talked, the lighter grew their hearts. Poor, bitterly wronged orphans! Let us hope that day is again dawning upon their long, dark and dismal night of adversity.